The Merry-Go-Round

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Back in March of 2013, I posted a blog to The Bridge Project entitled "Evolution." The impetus for it was the Supreme Court decision on marriage equality. and focused on the process of evolving itself. As I sit here on this Sunday morning, May 31, 2020, with the sun shining so brightly on the green lushness surrounding me, you'd think there would not be a care in the world. But outside the bubble of comfort in which I exist, the broader world seems to be falling apart. Demonstrations and protests over the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis, MN, have exploded into violence and destruction calling for a massive response from law enforcement and national guard units in many states. In and of themselves, these events cause such great sadness in my heart. However, the more compounding hurt comes from the realization that this spin of the civil rights merry-go-round just continues to go on and on without making any progress whatsover. We just seem to end up in the same place...getting off our horse at the same spot where we got on. 

I feel the need to resurrect "Evolution" today and modify the words a bit to fit the situation. As in many of my blog posts, your great granddaddy Schaefer is the inspiration.

Evolution II --

In my mind’s dictionary, the word “evolve” means to “move from one perception to another based upon bits of information gathered along the way.”  The process can apply to all aspects of life, from the trivial like grits to more weighty issues like the ones currently before the court.  

We are all born into sets of circumstances or moments in time that proffer a cultural baseline from which we begin. Sometimes, the advancements in science and technology force a relatively easy change. We now know something that we didn’t before and this new knowledge develops our thoughts to higher levels. To ignore growth through discovery is like opting for leaches over penicillin. 

The far more difficult evolution, however, is that of thought or opinion on the values of society. Perhaps the truth of this lies in the fact that a nuanced shift in how one sees the world can modify longstanding, closely held attitudes. Oftentimes, this occurrence creates conflict in families and extended communities. The ruptures can be so severe not even time can heal them. In the history of our country, this is particularly true in the context of civil rights.

Much of the impetus for cultural evolution comes from life’s experiences. Sometimes these emerge from a very personal source. The new-found awareness of private consequences can into a broader agenda for those he doesn’t even know.

Sometimes, however, the experience is externally driven….sort of like Paul’s Damascus Road.  Your great, great granddaddy Schaefer encountered two such events in his life that began his evolution on civil rights for African-Americans in 1936 and catapulted him into the arena of cultural change 30 years later.  When he was 77 years old, he wrote about them.

“In my life there were two episodes that radically altered my view on racial matters.  The first occurred in 1936 at Winthrop College.  A mock meeting of the League of Nations was held by the International Relations Clubs of the colleges in this state, the subject being Hitler’s treatment of the Jews.

I got the floor, and in righteous indignation I indicted Hitler and the German people, cataloguing the manifold acts of The Third Reich that made the Jews a sub-human species.  As I walked back to my seat to the applause of the delegates, I felt good, I even felt righteous (which I have since learned is a dangerous state).

A German exchange student got the floor after me.  He as the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Aryan that Hitler envisioned would sire his mater-race.  He was not only handsome, but also he was a dynamic speaker whose English was impeccable and sarcasm devastating.  He took my words and the cataloguing I had done and simply changed Jew to Negro of the South.  He was diabolical; I was demolished.

The next episode occurred in the railway station in Houston in 1945.  I was on my way to a naval assignment in the Pacific and had taken Mary to be with her mother, who lived in Houston.  Mary was pregnant with Bryant.  We were standing on the concourse that ran adjacent to the restaurant waiting for my troop train; and agonizing over saying good-bye.

Shortly a train arrived that had some 30 German prisoners of war, all officers and Hitler’s finest.  Their posture, movements and demeanor exuded arrogance.  The MP’s marched them into the restaurant where they sat at tables covered with linens and served by waitresses, all white.

About this time, there arrived a train carrying an all-black company of Logistic Support Troops (the Navy’s euphemism for stevedores).  Like me they were on their way to serve Uncle Sam’s Navy wherever they were ordered.

Because of the Texas Jim Crow law, they could not be fed in the restaurant.  There was a window between the restaurant and concourse and these troops were marched by this window and handed out milk and sandwiches.  They could see through the window the POWs sitting at the tables being served.

I wondered at the time; if I were one of those observing POWs being served on the other side of the window, what would my attitude be toward the country in whose uniform I was serving?  I, also, wondered what the Nazis were thinking, and whether one of them might be the exchange student who so humbled me at Winthrop.”

Great granddaddy’s painstaking evolution led him to a leadership role in the battle for integration of the1970’s. Both of you will evolve, each in your own way….and that’s okay…as long as you channel it for a broader good.

You Reap What You Sow

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Unless you like torrential rain and swirling winds, the weather here today is miserable. And so, like on other such days I’ve resorted to combing through boxes that have been laying around for years in the hopes of finding what should be kept and what should be purged. Most times this routine produces nothing surprising, but on occasion I come across a real unexpected…and long forgotten…jewel. Today’s treasure hunt revealed a small, blue composition book that from what I can surmise by the entries in it, I must have bought in Belize around 2006. At that time, Captain and I were cruising on our sailboat Up Jinks.

The handwritten scribblings are random, and they bounce around from recollections of our travels throughout Belize and Guatemala to original lyrics of songs and poetic endeavors on my part. Many are seeds of ideas that later blossomed into full blown articles for the travel website we published at the time. It’s really interesting to reconnect to words penned fourteen years ago and see how they refresh forgotten memories and events.

I want to share one entry with you and then I’ll make my point afterwards. (Meemaw always has a point, you know!)

March 22, 2006 in Placencia, Belize –

Witnessed something today at the dinghy dock in Placencia. I was sitting in our dinghy while Captain was buying gas and filling the sunshower bag with water.

“Jesus Christ!!”

The exasperated cry came from a man’s voice further on down the dock and caused me to look up in that direction. A rather heavyset woman stood on the dock holding the painter to a dinghy. Still in the dinghy were the irritated utterer of the Lord’s name—himself a very obese fellow—and a young girl who was obviously their child and had inherited her chubbiness from both these people. She was attempting to disembark the dinghy and get onto the dock. The span of several feet made it almost impossible for her to get a knee onto the dock for leverage. Once she did, her full girth kept her from sliding forward. There were no cleats to grab hold of. The only thing available was her mother’s hand which proved woefully insufficient but did provide some assistance as she flailed away. . 

Her father’s audible grousing only made things worse and I’m sure she sensed me watching along with all of the service hands at the gas pumps. It was a universally shared embarrassment for any woman who once was an awkward, dumpy teenager trying to navigate her body in such a situation.

The mother, caught between helping her daughter and shushing her husband, was rendered basically helpless.

Finally, the child heaved herself onto the dock, rolled over on her back and pushed herself up to stand. She then glanced around, pretending nothing unusual had just happened.

It came time for the father to step out. All of his body language, accentuated by his outrage, signaled that he would show her how it’s done. To my secret delight, he stumbled over the dinghy seat and fell flat on his face. With the unsteady dinghy swaying underneath him, he floundered around like a walrus trying to regain his footing, almost tipping over into the water.

I wanted to yell out, “Jesus Christ!!” But I didn’t. It wasn’t my place and I figured Jesus probably had more pressing things to worry about.

For the life of me, though, I couldn’t fathom why a father would ever want to humiliate his daughter like that, no matter how mad her clumsiness made him.

My point is, boys, you reap what you sow. That father had it coming to him. I think he caught Jesus’ attention when he yelled his blaspheme and in typical fashion, Jesus handled the situation to ultimate effect. Whenever you see someone struggling, help them. Don’t call unneeded attention to them or make fun. Help them. Particularly when it’s somebody you’re supposed to love.

Humbly help them.

Watch What You Say To Your Wife

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Just a little advice for you now that’s way too premature, but hopefully when the time comes, you’ll put it to good use. Watch what you say to your wife. Even though I’m sure you’re wondering why this would be the topic of a letter to you at such a strange time with all the Covid-19 distractions swirling around, it does have basis in a logical origin—the new art of grocery shopping.

It used to be that going to the grocery store was one of our mundane, taken-for-granted pleasures that didn’t require a whole lot of thought or groundwork ahead of time because…hey…if you forget something, you can just turn around and go get it. Plus, sometimes you never know what you need until you see it, like Jello Snack Pack puddings on sale 10 for $5.00. And, letting a man loose by himself to wander the aisles always translated into busted budgets. I mean why would you want to get the family pack of pork chops when the two extra thick cuts are sooo much more appealing? 

But Coronavirus has changed all that. You must always go prepared and preferably only one person per family.  In our case, that’s Captain. Don’t know whether it’s a male thing about protecting his mate or just a real desire to get out of the house, but he has asserted himself as the one eligible candidate to represent us.

The other day, I had fashioned a rather lengthy tome (more commonly called a grocery list) that included, among other things in the inventory of needs and wants, the ubiquitous entry of fresh green beans. After donning his protective face mask, Captain tucked the list in his jacket pocket and made a run to the local Food Lion in what has become our latest favorite game—let's see how many things on a list are actually available.  

Upon his return, he gave a synopsis of his unmitigated successes and abject failures. Alas, there were no fresh green beans but being the resourceful fellow that he is, he grabbed a couple of packages of frozen ones. (Don’t worry. He wasn’t hoarding. He left some behind.) I restocked the pantry with canned goods, soups, pasta sauce and paper products. The perishables found their way into the refrigerator, bread in the breadbox and laundry detergent on top of the washing machine. The beans ended up in the freezer along with the Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches…which were on the list…and a pack of P.F. Chang eggrolls…which were not but must have somehow been too irresistible for our designated shopper to pass up.

Several days later, I pulled the beans out to go with some mashed potatoes and hamburgers in mushroom gravy. I didn’t notice until the bag was opened, and I dumped them into a pan that they were French cut. Hmm…not a conscious choice I figured. French cut beans just don’t cook up like snapped ones—a thought that brought back a funny string of stories. Thus, the point of this letter.

I’ve told you before that Great Granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary married during World War II. It was a disruptive time, much like this one. As an attorney, he was called up to serve and sent to Chicago to train in the 90-day Wonder School for the Navy's Judge Advocate General Corps, the military's equivalent of a judicial branch. The circumstances also uprooted their original wedding plans, scheduled for the First United Methodist Church in Houston, Texas, and re-ordering them to hastily take place in the chapel on the campus of Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. 

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They rented an apartment in Chicago near the facility where Granddaddy went to classes. As was her penchant from then until the day she died, Mamaw dedicated her time to making a comfortable home for him which was challenging because of the rationing and interrupted supply chains that we are experiencing somewhat today. One day at a grocery store, she made a rare find—fresh green beans. Excitedly, she came home, washed them in a colander and began the meticulous process of cutting them with scissors into the long, slender version known as French.

I don’t know what she planned for the main entrée of the meal, but I do imagine that she tenderly and with loving care steamed the beans in a double boiler so that they would be al dente and not limp. It is with great amusement that I visualize what happened when Granddaddy came home. Mamaw was not prone to self-pride but I’m sure her face beamed with delight at the dinner she presented to him. Perhaps the shine began to fade with the first question.

“Mary, what are these?”

“Why, Schaefer, they are French cut green beans.”

He took a forkful and put them in his mouth, chewing contemplatively.

“Well…I can see right now I’m going to have to get you back to Greenville so that Granny Bryant can teach you how to cook beans.”

The quivering lip of his new bride elicited by this comment should have been a sufficient clue to Granddaddy for all of posterity…that remarks of criticism, no matter their innocence, should be avoided at any cost when it comes to your wife. Perhaps it is the male condition…I don’t know since I’m not one…but the lesson didn’t seem to stick.

Later on after the sting of this incident might have subsided (but, trust me, wasn't forgotten), Mamaw found a recipe for Lemon Meringue Pie in a magazine. She wasn’t skilled in the art of pastry but did have a pie pan in her arsenal of kitchen equipment. Following the recipe to the nth degree, she carefully made the dough…rolling it flat, pressing it into the pan and crimping the edges with a fork, then sticking it in the oven to bake.

Once the crust cooked, she set it aside to cool. She whisked the ingredients for the lemon mixture and cooked them on the stove until thickened. After pouring it into the crust, Mamaw turned her attention to the pied de resistance—the meringue. She whipped egg whites until foamy and then added sugar until stiff peaks formed. After slathering the meringue over the surface of the pie, she baked it for ten minutes until the tips became brown.

That night, after dinner Mamaw presented the pie to Granddaddy Schaefer. He loved it and said so profusely…to the extent that she decided to bake another pie as soon as that one was gone. The reaction to the second pie was almost as abundant as the first. So much so that it spawned yet a third rendition. At some point in the avalanche of sweetness, it all came to a sudden end with one simple question.

 “Mary, do you know how to make any other kind of pie?”

I don’t think I’m wrong when I say this, boys, but he never saw another lemon meringue pie the remainder of their marriage.

Unfortunately, it seems to be the fate of men that they can’t refrain from such tone-deaf comments. Captain stepped in it early in our marriage by cozying up to me at the stove and suggesting that the way his mother fried chicken might be better than my haphazard method. It didn’t go over well.

He...and Great Granddaddy...and you...and all men...would be better served by taking the simple advice of Uncle Sid Tally who offered this as the secret to a successful marriage…”Just say ‘Yes, dear.’”